


Down Memory Lane

by orphan_account



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst with a Happy Ending, Barebacking, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Insecure Wade, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-20 12:30:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14261004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In a plot so cliché it'll fit right in with the rest of Marvel canon, Wade gets amnesia and forgets the last three years of his life... including his relationship with Peter.





	1. Unfamiliar

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back with more Spideypool, and it's just as cliché as I promised. An amnesia fic! Every ship needs one, right? Well, here's my contribution. Hope you enjoy it!

The afternoon sun streamed into Wade’s bedroom through an open window, lighting a blinding stripe across his bed. The sounds of the city followed it: cars honking, people talking and laughing and shouting at each other. Wade groaned and buried his face under the covers. He’d slept in later than usual, but still he felt exhausted. His bones ached, his head was pounding, even his eyes hurt. His brain started up like an old Windows 95 computer, and when he was finally capable of forming a coherent thought, Wade only had one question for himself: _What happened last night?_

No matter how hard he strained, Wade couldn’t remember a single thing that had gone down the night before. The aches in his body suggested he’d picked a fight with the Hulk, and the splitting headache in his skull suggested he’d done it after twelve shots of vodka. And to be fair, neither of these scenarios were outside the realm of possibility. Not for a man like Wade Wilson. But usually, when he did something that catastrophically stupid, he at least remembered it in vivid, gory detail the next day.

The sticky taste of sleep in his mouth finally convinced Wade to throw off the covers and get out of bed. Whatever trouble he’d gotten himself into, it was clearly over now. He was safe in his bed in his apartment in New York City, and he needed to brush his teeth, take a piss, and eat some breakfast, in more or less that order. Except… as Wade’s eyes adjusted to the midday light, and his sluggish brain took in his surroundings, he realized a few very obvious and alarming facts.

First. He wasn’t, in fact, in his bed. He was in a different, unfamiliar bed. A stranger’s bed. Large enough for two, and the empty half still held the indentation of another person’s body. Which, to a normal person, might suggest they’d gotten lucky the night before, but to someone like Wade, who looked like he’d gone through a meat grinder and, as a direct result of this, hadn’t gotten lucky in about five or six years at last count, it suggested something far more sinister, although he wasn’t exactly sure what.

Second. The aforementioned bed was not, in fact, in Wade’s New York apartment. He was still in New York – one look out the window confirmed that, as did the aggressive shouting and the smell of bagels and hot dogs wafting up from the street below – but the apartment was different. Unfamiliar. And… clean. Well, cleaner than Wade’s apartment. His Deadpool suit had been deposited neatly into a laundry basket in the corner of the room, instead of piled haphazardly onto the floor, and there weren’t any dirty dishes or empty wrappers strewn about. The only disorder in the room was the unmade bed Wade was currently sitting on, tangled in white sheets, lost and disoriented.

Wade struggled even more persistently to remember how the fuck he’d ended up there. His sleep-addled brain came up with only one semi-realistic scenario: He’d been kidnapped. Drugged, kidnapped, and… put to bed? It didn’t make a lot of sense, but then again, neither did anything else about the situation. And this scenario left Wade with only one course of action. First, he needed to find his weapons, which he noticed were conspicuously absent. Second, he needed to find the person who’d kidnapped him. And third, he needed to put a bullet in said person. Simple. Easy. Straightforward.

So Wade got out of bed, and it finally registered in his brain that he was completely naked, mangled skin exposed to any poor, unfortunate soul who happened to lay eyes on him. This wasn’t too unusual – Wade had a habit of sleeping naked – but if he was going to confront his kidnapper, he wanted to do it with at least some dignity. So he pulled a sheet off the bed, folded it in half, and tied it around his waist. He then scoured the room for something to use as a weapon. The lamp might work in a pinch, but it wasn’t quite deadly enough. He crouched down to peek under the bed and found only dust bunnies. In the nightstand, however, after shoving aside bottles of sleeping pills and ibuprofen, books on scientific concepts Wade could barely pronounce, and a sizable stash of condoms and lube, he felt a secret compartment, and inside, a gun, unloaded but with ammunition beside it.

“Boy, are you a sight for sore eyes.” Wade loaded the weapon in one smooth, practiced motion and started creeping toward the open bedroom door. Now that he was paying attention, all five of his senses on red alert, he heard the telltale sounds of activity coming from what must have been the kitchen: A refrigerator door opening and closing, speakers playing upbeat music at a reasonable volume, plates and utensils clinking against each other, water running in a sink. Whoever was out there was the key to all this. They would be able to tell Wade what had happened, how he'd ended up here, and why he felt like a pile of dog shit and couldn’t remember the previous night.

With that decided, Wade burst out of the bedroom, gun aimed at the source of the noise, safety off.

Wade hadn’t known exactly what to expect, but this definitely wasn’t it. A young, attractive man in his mid- to late-twenties stood at the sink, washing the dishes, sporting a white undershirt, gray sweatpants, bare feet, and major bedhead. He had a smile in his voice when he spoke. “He lives!” he called out over his shoulder, and Wade felt a pang of familiarity in his chest that he couldn’t quite attach to anything in his adrenaline-riddled state. “I was starting to worry you’d never—”

The young man cut off abruptly, probably because it was at this exact moment that he turned and saw a half-naked Deadpool, wrapped in a sheet, standing in the far corner of his kitchen, aiming a gun at his head. He jumped nearly a foot in the air and his hands clutched frantically at the counter behind him, sink still running.

“Holy shit!” the stranger shouted, voice cracking, eyes trained on the barrel of Wade’s stolen gun. “Wade, what the fuck are you doing?”

Another pang in Wade’s chest. He ignored it, determined to solve the mystery he’d found himself in. He channeled all of his confusion into his voice and demanded: “Who the fuck are you? Where the fuck am I? How did I get here, and—” because right about then, Wade registered that this complete stranger had just called him by his real first name, “—How do you know my name?”

“Is this a fucking joke?” The stranger was still shouting, still frozen in place. He sounded angry. “Because I’m not laughing.” When Wade didn’t say anything, his voice took a more desperate, almost shrill tone. “Quit pointing that thing at me!”

“Believe me,” Wade said, ignoring the stranger’s request and instead approaching him slowly, “When I tell a joke, you’ll know it. I ain’t joking. Now, one more time.” He repeated himself, emphasizing each word. “Who the fuck are you? Where the fuck am I? How did I get here, and how do you know my name?”

Wade almost felt a little guilty when he saw the shock in the stranger’s eyes turn to fear, and something else, something that looked a little bit like betrayal. Which was absurd, because Wade never felt guilty about anything, and he was pretty sure, in this situation, he didn’t have anything to feel guilty about. He’d been kidnapped! And sure, his kidnapper was all cute and innocent-looking – and attractive, had Wade mentioned he was attractive? because he was _attractive_ – but you couldn’t judge a book by its cover. Wade, of all people, knew that.

“Shit,” the stranger said. He looked like he was going to hyperventilate, like his fight-or-flight instinct had just kicked in and the dial was turned all the way to “run, bitch, run!” “Fuck. You’re not joking.” He gulped and took a tentative step forward, holding his hands up like Wade was a cop or something. “Okay. Put… put the gun down. Please.” He was shaking and stammering. Doubt started to settle into Wade’s mind. Maybe… maybe he _hadn’t_ been kidnapped. But what other explanation was there for his current situation? “I’m not going to hurt you,” the stranger insisted. “I’m your friend.”

Wade’s resolve hardened, and he glared at the stranger. “Bullshit,” he spat. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

“Wade, we’ve known each other for years!” Jesus Christ, was this guy about to start crying? Wade was one hundred percent not here for that shit. He didn’t do crying. Couldn’t handle it. If this guy started crying, Wade was going to have to shoot him just to get him to stop. “It’s me!” the stranger insisted, like Wade really should recognize him, like they really had known each other for years. But that didn’t make any sense. Wade really, truly did not know who this person was. “It’s me! It’s Peter! Peter Parker!”

Admittedly, his voice did sound a little familiar. But the name? Not familiar at all. “Never heard of him.”

Panic flashed across the stranger’s face. “Have you heard of Spider-Man?” he asked, words spilling out so quickly Wade could barely make them out.

Spider-Man! Now that was someone Wade hadn’t seen in way too long. Their last team-up had been… what, months ago? He missed that kid. “Yeah, of course I have,” he said. Then, when his brain caught up to what the stranger – Peter, apparently – had said, “Why? Is he here? What have you done with him?” Oh, this motherfucker was gonna die a long and painful death if he laid a single goddamn _finger_ on Spider-Man; it didn’t matter how cute he was.

“He’s me,” Peter said. “I’m Spider-Man.”

Wade squinted at him, angled his head, tried to imagine him in red-and-blue spandex. He had the right body type, but… No. It couldn’t be. Spider-Man was ridiculously protective of his secret identity. More than any other superhero Wade had ever interacted with. If you looked “secret identity” up in the dictionary, there’d be a little picture of Spider-Man right next to it. No way he’d show his face like this to Wade.

“Prove it.”

“Alright.” Peter motioned to the bedroom door. “Can I walk past you, into the bedroom? My suit’s in the closet.”

Wade stepped aside, but didn’t lower his gun. “Fine. No funny business,” he warned.

Peter walked past him like he was tiptoeing through a minefield, crept into the bedroom, opened the closet door slowly, shoved racks of clothing out of the way, and reached into the very back. He came back out with that ever-familiar web-patterned suit and held it in front of himself pointedly. There was no mistaking it; this was either the real thing, or one hell of a replica. And then, to seal the deal, Peter reached out a hand and, faster than Wade could react, a web shot toward him and whipped the gun right out of his hand and into Peter’s, and there was no way _that_ was a replica.

Silence stretched between them as Wade absorbed this new information and slowly realized its implications. This stranger, this Peter guy, was Spider-Man. Wade knew Spider-Man’s real name. He knew what he looked like (which was somehow even more attractive than Wade had pictured, and that just wasn’t fair). And… Wade had just aimed a gun at him and threatened to shoot him.

Not good.

“Do you believe me now?” Peter asked, a tremor in his voice. He didn’t take his eyes off Wade, watching him like Wade was a dangerous animal. Like he was _afraid_ of Wade. Ooh. Wade did not like that. He didn’t like that one bit. Peter unloaded the gun and returned it to the secret compartment where Wade had found it. Wade was surprised; he hadn’t expected Spider-Man to keep a gun around. The guy was pretty uncomfortable around firearms, even when another hero was wielding them.

“Yeah, of course!” Wade insisted, running damage control. He got the feeling he’d be apologizing for this one for _years_. “I just didn’t recognize you without the mask and all. Getting a little cavalier about your secret identity, aren’t you?”

Peter shook his head in disbelief and collapsed onto the bed, running a hand through his messy hair. “Oh my God,” he said, more to himself than to Wade. “Wade, you gave me a fucking heart attack! This really isn’t a joke?”

Wade frowned and crossed his arms over his bare chest, something he was all of a sudden very self-conscious about, now that he knew who was looking at him. He hadn’t ever meant for Spider-Man to see him like this. All out in the open, scars and all. “Come on, Spidey,” he said defensively, “Who do you take me for? You think I’d put on a show like that as a joke? I might be fucked up, but I’m not _that_ fucked up.”

“So you… you seriously don’t know who I am.”

“Of course I know who you are.” Wade flung his arms out. “You’re Spider-Man!”

“But you don’t know _me_ ,” Peter said, leaning toward Wade insistently, like he was making a very important point. “You don’t know me like this.” He gestured to his un-costumed body. His gorgeous, gorgeous body. Wade noticed the muscle definition peeking out of his short-sleeved t-shirt, and _of fucking course_ Spider-Man’s arms would look like that.

“I’ve never seen you like this before,” Wade confirmed. “You’ve never shown me your secret identity before. Unless…” Oh shit! All of a sudden it all made sense. Wade must’ve gotten into trouble, picked a fight with the wrong bad guy, something of that nature, and Spider-Man had come to his rescue and taken him back to his apartment to let him heal up. He must’ve shown Wade his face, but Wade had been too fucked up to remember it. Things could get a bit blurry when he was healing from a major injury. “Did you show me last night? Because I don’t remember anything that happened last night. What did happen last night?”

Peter looked at him even more strangely than before. “I don’t know what happened to you last night,” he said, and Wade could tell he was being truthful. “A few weeks ago, you left to team up with Wolverine. I didn’t see or hear from you the whole time, and then you showed up here talking nonsense, took your suit off, and went to sleep. I figured you’d tell me about it in the morning. I wasn’t expecting you to pull a fucking gun on me and forget who I am!”

Okay, so Wade’s theory was about as wrong as it could be. That put him back at square one, confused as hell and unable to put this whole situation together in a way that made sense. “So you’re telling me… you’re Spider-Man,” he said, thinking out loud. “But your real name’s Peter—What was your last name?”

“Parker.”

“Nice. Alliterative. Your real name’s Peter Parker, and I’m… somehow supposed to know this? And recognize you? And you somehow recognize me, looking like this? And you know my real name?” This was the part Wade was having trouble with.

“Yeah,” Peter said, like this was all completely obvious. “Wade, you and I swapped secret identities like three years ago. We shared backstories and everything. I’m Peter Parker. I’m from Queens. I got bitten by a radioactive spider in high school and it gave me superpowers.” Peter gazed at him intently. “You really don’t remember any of this?”

Wade shook his head. “None of it’s ringing a bell. I mean, I kinda figured you were from Queens, ’cause boy do you sound like it, but the rest? Nah.”

Peter looked overwhelmed. Wade could relate to that. “How could you just… _forget_ who I am? What did you and Wolverine do together?”

Wade shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t remember teaming up with Wolverine. I mean, I remember teaming up with him in the past; we team up all the time. But I don’t remember doing it recently.”

“And I’m guessing you also don’t remember where we are?”

Wade took another look around the room and shook his head. “Never been here before in my life. Is this your apartment? It’s not bad.”

“Wade.” Peter made piercing eye contact with Wade, and Wade felt… exposed, all of a sudden. Peter – Spider-Man, his friend who he occasionally jerked off to (okay, maybe more than occasionally) – was looking at his _face_ , his fucked up face, not the Deadpool mask he hid behind. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit. But then, Peter said something that sent his thoughts in a completely different direction. “This is _our_ apartment.”

Wade was pretty sure he’d heard that wrong. He’d probably been too busy thinking about how ugly he was, especially next to someone so goddamn, infuriatingly attractive. “Sorry?”

“This is our apartment,” Peter repeated. “We live here. You and me. Together.”

“Huh.” Wade wasn’t quite sure what to make of that. “Since when?”

“About two years ago.”

 _Two years_. And they’d apparently known each other’s secret identities for _three_ years. Something was definitely, seriously wrong here. Was this an alternate universe thing? Was it amnesia? Either way, it was incredibly cliché. “Interesting,” Wade said, absorbing this information. “Never thought I’d have Spider-Man for a roommate. It’s not a bad idea, though.”

Peter bit his lip, and all of a sudden Wade was looking at Peter’s lips, which was a _bad_ idea. “Wade, you’re not… we’re not… roommates,” Peter said. “I mean, I guess we are, technically, but we, um. We’re in a relationship.”

Wade _definitely_ heard that wrong. “Excuse me?”

“We’re in a relationship, Wade. We started dating not long after we shared our secret identities. Three years ago. You’re my boyfriend.”

No. That was absurd. Wade was dreaming. That was the only explanation for all this. For Spider-Man being so attractive, and sharing his secret identity with Wade, and for the two of them, Spider-Man and Deadpool, to be _dating_! It was impossible! For one thing, Peter looked about ten years younger than Wade, at _least_ , and for another… well, look at him! He was smokin’! And Wade was… Wade. He was a disaster. Physically, emotionally, mentally. And so Wade said the only thing he could say to all this: “…What?”

Something in Peter seemed to snap, and he shot to his feet. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Wade… We’re in a relationship!” He grabbed Wade by the shoulders – his bare shoulders – and shook him a little. “You and I are _dating_. We’re _together_. We’re fucking in love! And then you leave, which I’m fine with, really, we have responsibilities, I know, but you _leave_ for _weeks_ , and I don’t know where you are and I can’t see you or talk to you and I don’t even know if you’re _alive_. And then you finally come home in the middle of the night, and you’re not making any sense, and when you wake up, you pull a fucking gun on me and can’t remember who I am! And now here we are, and I’m trying to tell you everything you’ve apparently forgotten about the last _three years_ , and I don’t know what happened and _you aimed a fucking gun at my head, Wade_!”

Peter released Wade’s shoulders – his grip left indentations that were already beginning to fade, but that would have turned to bruises on another man – and stepped back, started pacing the room. “I can’t fucking believe this. I can’t… I can’t do this!” He buried his head in his hands. “I’m gonna have a fucking panic attack. Shit. Fuck.” He started muttering to himself, and Wade didn’t know what he was supposed to do in this situation. Should he just keep standing there, doing nothing? Should he reach out and comfort Peter? Should he leave? “Calm down, Peter,” the poor kid was telling himself, wringing his hands. “You can do this. Worse things have happened to you.”

Peter looked up at Wade, and Wade was pretty sure he was supposed to do something, say something, but he couldn’t think of anything to do or say. Then Peter looked away, and the moment passed. “Nope,” Peter said. “Can’t do it.” He turned back to Wade. “I need to… I…” And then his eyes scanned the room and found his Spider-Man suit, laid out on the bed where he’d left it. He snatched it up and held it like a lifeline. “I’m going out,” he said decisively. “I need some time to think about this. Clear my head. I’ll be back.” He looked at Wade like he didn’t know what to do with him, and then added, “Don’t… go anywhere.”

Wade didn’t plan to.


	2. Amnesia

Without Peter, the apartment felt empty. Lonely, even. Wade thought about watching some television, but didn’t think he’d be able to focus on even the most mindless reality garbage. Instead, he wandered from room to room, examining the life he’d apparently been living for the past three years. The gun in the nightstand? His. Wade wondered how he’d managed to convince Peter to let him keep one in their bedroom. The books and pills it had been hidden beneath must’ve been Peter’s, and the condoms and lube… Wade was too depressed to get as excited as he knew he should be about the implications of that sexy little stash, so he bookmarked it for later, when he was in a better mood.

The rest of the bedroom was remarkably unremarkable. A laptop sat charging on a desk squeezed into the corner of the room, with a rolling desk chair that squeaked in protest when Wade sat on it. In the closet, a row of clothing of two different sizes hung in a neat line, and a pile of shoes was clustered on the floor. The walls were undecorated save for a trio of framed diplomas. They all bore the same name: Peter Parker. Bachelor’s degree, master’s degree, doctorate. “Goddamn,” Wade muttered. “Even farther out of my league than I thought he was.” How the fuck had he, Wade Wilson, high school dropout and ugliest man alive, ended up with a smokin’ hot superhero with a _doctorate_? “Always knew my writers had a sick sense of humor. Just didn’t think it’d ever work out in my favor.”

The bathroom was similarly nondescript: white tiles, white walls, a shower and a toilet and a sink. Nothing out of the ordinary. In the combined kitchen and living room, a sofa faced a television surrounded by video game consoles and controllers. Popular science books were piled on the coffee table. The kitchen was fully stocked with food, half-washed dishes still sitting where Peter had left them in the kitchen sink. There was a full plate of plastic wrapped food in the refrigerator with a sticky note on it: “In case I’m gone when you wake up. Love, Peter.” Wade felt a little bit like a fist was squeezing his heart.

Wade warmed the plate up in the microwave. He held the sticky note in his hands, reading and rereading it until the words echoed over and over in his mind. _Love, Peter. Love, Peter. Love, Peter._ He remembered what Peter had shouted at him in his exasperation and panic before he’d left through the window in full Spider-Man costume: “We’re in a relationship. We’re dating. We’re together. We’re in love.” The microwave beeped. Wade held the plate in his hand, caught between feeling sick to his stomach and feeling like he hadn’t eaten in days, which very well might have been the case. All he could think about was Peter. Peter was in love with him. He was in love with Peter. And he couldn’t remember a single moment of it.

Wade sat at the kitchen table and shoveled his food down his throat as fast as he possibly could, not stopping to savor it, not even enjoying it. He washed his dishes and the dishes that were left in the sink – it was the least he could do – and collapsed on the couch. And waited.

It occurred to him after about an hour that he still wasn’t wearing any clothes, just a bedsheet tied around his waist. He trudged to the bedroom, dropped the sheet in the laundry basket, and put together an outfit of clothes in his size from the closet. And then he collapsed face down on the bed, thinking it was probably about time for him to wallow in self-pity.

It didn’t make any sense. He should be happy. He should be fucking ecstatic! He’d just learned that he was in a healthy, happy relationship with the man he’d had the biggest, dumbest crush on for almost as long as they’d known each other. Not only that, but he’d learned that said man was just about the most attractive man he’d ever _seen_ , and was some kind of scientific genius to boot. Wade won the goddamn lottery! And here he was, face buried in a pillow, feeling more miserable than he could remember feeling in… a while. Which was saying something. It was really saying something.

But Wade just couldn’t get past the _look_ on Peter’s face when they’d been standing in the kitchen, staring each other down, Wade ready to shoot him at the slightest provocation. Wade felt like throwing up the lunch he’d just eaten. In that moment, for however brief a time, Peter had been _afraid_ of him. Peter Parker, Spider-Man, one of Wade’s best and only friends, had been afraid of him. “Spider-Man’s not bulletproof, you colossal fuckup,” Wade scolded himself. “Of course he was fucking afraid. You could have fucking killed him!”

“Talking to yourself again?”

Wade craned his neck to see a costumed Peter climbing in through the bedroom window. He pulled off his mask and came to sit next to Wade on their bed. He sounded tired, not just physically, but emotionally. It made Wade feel even worse.

“I wasn’t expecting you to still be here,” Peter admitted.

Wade frowned. Did Peter not want him there? He’d told him to stay… “You told me to stay.”

“That doesn’t mean you would. Listening isn’t one of your strong suits.” He had a point there.

Wade sat up and shrugged half-heartedly. He tried to think of a witty retort but, for once in his life, came up empty. “I wouldn’t leave you,” he mumbled instead. Peter put a hand between his shoulder blades and forced a smile.

“I did some thinking,” he said, changing the tone of the conversation to a slightly more hopeful one.

“You’re so much better at that than I am,” Wade said, his sense of humor returning to him as quickly as it had gone. He nodded to the wall. “I noticed your degrees, smarty pants.”

Peter’s smile widened into a grin and he stood. “Did you see what they were hiding?” And with that, he popped the frames open like little doors to reveal three small, hidden cabinets. Wade leaned forward to look inside; his eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas. Spare Deadpool and Spider-Man suits were packed tightly into the first, and the other two held some of Wade’s weapons, mostly knives and handguns. “Your swords are under the floorboards,” Peter said, pointing under the desk across the room where, sure enough, one of the floorboards was just a half-shade darker than the rest.

“You really are a genius.” Peter blushed.

“Anyway, like I was saying,” he said, ignoring Wade’s remark. He never had been very good at taking compliments. “I did some thinking, and I’m pretty sure you have amnesia. I don’t know how it happened, because obviously you can’t remember how it happened, but I can’t think of any other explanation for all this, so that must be it.”

Wade nodded. “Makes sense.”

Peter raised his eyebrows. “It makes sense? Really?”

“Yeah. Superheroes get amnesia all the time. It’s a very popular plot line. A little cliché, but that’s never stopped a Marvel writer.”

“…What?”

“Never mind.” Wade waved a hand dismissively, and Peter moved on, unfazed by Wade’s at times inexplicable behavior. Clearly he was used to it.

“So once I realized what was going on,” he continued, “I asked myself, okay, what can we do about amnesia? I’m not a doctor. And I don’t know the first thing about psychology. But it’s like you said: Superheroes get amnesia all the time. And who’s the expert on superheroes?”

“Fangirls?”

“What? No, the Avengers!” Peter sat down next to Wade, absentmindedly leaning on Wade’s shoulder and nuzzling into his neck. Wade froze, unable to move, barely able to breathe, for fear of ruining this perfect moment that had come out of nowhere and given him everything he’d ever wanted. It took an enormous effort to actually listen to what Peter was saying and not just close his eyes and lose himself in the warmth of Peter’s body next to him, the scent of shampoo in his hair, the sound of his voice. “Luckily, I’ve teamed up with the Avengers before,” Peter was saying, “So I called them up—”

“Do they know how to fix this?” Wade asked eagerly. Because sitting here next to Peter, there was suddenly nothing he wanted more than to solve this whole mess they’d found themselves in and get back to the life they apparently had together, the relationship Wade had forgotten.

“Well,” Peter said, drawing out the word, and Wade’s hopes plummeted. “No. I mean, maybe. I went straight to voicemail. Twenty-seven times. So, no help from the Avengers.”

Wade scoffed. “Figures. They’re a bunch of divas. What’s our Plan B?”

“Plan B was the X-Men,” Peter explained. “They’ve got telepaths, right? And who better to get your memories back than a telepath? But when I called the Xavier School, all I got was a really long lecture about how they’ve got their own problems and they’re already going extinct as it is and they really don’t have the time or resources to help other heroes right now. So, no help from the X-Men, either.”

“Seems like they’re always on the brink of extinction,” Wade said. “It’s exhausting. Plan C?”

“Plan C is where things get a little rocky.”

“I can handle rocky. What’s Plan C?”

“There is no Plan C.”

“Hm,” Wade said, trying not to sound disappointed. “Unfortunate.”

“Yeah.” For a few minutes, Peter and Wade just sat there. Peter fumbled around and found Wade’s hand, held it in his. Wade’s heartbeat stuttered in his chest. He felt like a thousand butterflies had been set loose in his stomach. And the butterflies were also on cocaine. A brilliant idea occurred to him.

“Hey,” he said, “You know what I do when I’m upset about something I can’t do anything about?”

Peter smiled into his shoulder. Wade could feel it through the fabric of his shirt. “Usually you complain about it.”

Fair enough. “After that.”

“I don’t know. What do you do?”

Wade grinned wickedly. “Take it out on someone who deserves it.” He squeezed Peter’s hand and looked down at him. “Wanna go find someone committing a crime somewhere?”

Peter looked out the window at the late afternoon sun. “It’s the middle of the day.”

“Yeah, in New York fucking City,” Wade said. “There’s crime everywhere! That’s the best part about this place!” He shook Peter’s arm, trying to psych him up, lift the somber mood. “Eh? Whaddaya say? You’ll feel better.”

Peter squinted at him, then nodded. “Alright.” He stood and grabbed his mask. “You’ve convinced me. I do always feel better after some successful crime-fighting.”

Wade leapt to his feet and punched the air. “Yeah!” he shouted. “Let’s go kick some ass!”

And, okay, there wasn’t a lot exciting going on out there. They stopped a carjacking, which was a lot of fun. Petty criminals never expected to run into Spider-Man – there was so much crime in New York City, Peter couldn’t possibly be expected to put a stop to all of it – let alone Spider-Man and Deadpool together. And as scared shitless as criminals were of Spider-Man, they at least knew the worst they’d end up was webbed between a pair of lampposts, waiting to get picked up by the police. When Deadpool showed up, you didn’t know _what_ was going to happen to you. Nothing was off the table. And of course Wade wouldn’t kill someone when Peter was around, because Peter got so upset about it and it made him feel guilty in a way killing people usually didn’t, but criminals didn’t know that.

Then they helped some firefighters evacuate an apartment building. That felt good. Especially the part when all the residents they’d rescued had thanked them for saving their lives. It made Wade feel like a hero. He didn’t get to feel like that very often, but he’d noticed that he was usually with Spider-Man when he did.

And finally, to round up the day, Peter found a lost dog wandering Central Park, posted about it to his Spider-Man Facebook account – “Look, thirty million followers,” he said, half-joking, half-proud. “I’m way more popular than I was in high school.” – and found the owner in no time. That was probably the best part of the day, because who didn’t love spending time with a dog? Dogs were the best. Wade actually sort of wished they hadn’t found the owner, because then they could take it home with them, and the only thing Wade could think of that would be better than living with his boyfriend Peter Parker would be living with his boyfriend Peter Parker and their awesome dog. But in the end, it was probably for the best. Wade wasn’t the most responsible guy in the world. He probably wouldn’t make a very good dog owner.

They ended up on the roof of a building a few blocks from their own, sitting on the edge with their legs dangling beneath them, sipping frozen drinks they’d picked up on their way there. They were holding hands again. Wade felt like a goddamn teenage girl, but he could not get over how warm and safe and happy Peter made him feel. He wanted to hold his hand forever. Well, okay, he wanted to do a lot of other, less appropriate things with him, but holding hands was nice.

“Well?” he prompted. They were watching the sun set over the New York skyline, and it was like a scene straight out of the cheesiest romance movie, and Wade fucking loved it. “Feel better?”

Wade couldn’t see Peter’s expression behind his mask, but he liked to think he was smiling. “Yeah,” he admitted. “A little.”

Wade nudged him playfully. “Told you so.”

Now he _knew_ Peter was smiling. “You’re a smug piece of shit,” he said, shoving Wade lightly, conscious of the drink in his hand and the fact that they were sitting on the edge of a six-story drop.

Wade grinned. “I’m _your_ smug piece of shit.” God, that felt good to say. Old Wade, pre-amnesia Wade, must’ve said shit like that all the time. The way Peter shook his head and chuckled suggested that, yeah, he totally did.

Comfortable silence settled between them, interrupted when Wade reached the bottom of his drink and noisily slurped up the last bits. He threw the empty beverage into a dumpster below them and missed.

Peter cleared his throat, getting Wade’s attention. “I know you don’t remember us being in a relationship,” he said, his voice taking on a more serious tone, “But… what do you remember?” He shifted so his body was facing Wade’s, kicking up his feet and draping his legs over Wade’s lap. Wade gulped. Peter was… surprisingly touchy-feely. He liked it. A lot. “Obviously you remember us teaming up together, as Spider-Man and Deadpool.”

“Yeah, of course I do!” Wade exclaimed. “Our team-ups are legendary!” Wade had always looked forward to teaming up with Spider-Man. Sure, his other team-ups were fun too – Wolverine was incredibly entertaining to annoy – but Spider-Man? Even though those team-ups meant Wade had to stick to a stricter moral code than he usually did, he still found himself enjoying them. Peter’s banter in the middle of a fight rivaled even Wade’s, and their friendly teasing – flirting, really – felt more natural than breathing. Teaming up with Spider-Man was like a vacation for Wade, not because it was easy, but because it was so goddamn fun.

“Do you remember having feelings for me?” Peter asked. “Or being attracted to me at all?”

“I hardly remember _not_ being attracted to you,” Wade said. It was true. He didn’t remember exactly when his crush on Spider-Man had developed – he hadn’t known how old Spider-Man was at first, only that he was young as shit for a superhero, and he felt creepy being attracted to him and tried to keep their dynamic as platonic as he could – but looking back, he could hardly remember a time in their relationship before it. He just couldn’t help himself around Peter. His presence was… infectious. “Your butt in spandex? I swear, I could write poetry about it. And your laugh. You have an adorable laugh. And your corny one-liners.”

Wade turned to look at the horizon. Sunset was turning to dusk, streetlights were flickering to life. It would soon be dark. It felt like the right time to get serious. “Mostly I like that you don’t treat me like… oh, you know. Like everyone else treats me.” Like a killer. Like a freak. Like something dangerous, something crazy. Like he probably deserved to be treated. He shoved that thought to the back of his mind where it belonged, with the rest of his garbage thoughts. “Man,” he said, “All you had to do was ask, and I’d… I’d do anything for you, baby boy.” And God, he meant it.

Peter got very silent. When he spoke, it was barely above a whisper. “You haven’t changed a bit,” he said, shifting so they were once again shoulder-to-shoulder. Wade put an arm around him, and Peter leaned into it. “You’ve forgotten at least three years of your life and it’s like nothing’s different.”

“Can’t change how I feel about you.” Peter turned his head to press his cheek against Wade’s shoulder. “I just never expected you to feel the same way. I mean, you’re _you_. And you apparently look like a model, which is just… If I’d known that, I would’ve had more wank material than I’d know what to do with! I’d never leave the house, that’s how busy I’d be jerkin’ it to you.”

Peter drew back and smacked Wade’s arm. “You’re ruining the mood, Wade,” he scolded. Wade laughed unrepentantly. It only took a moment for Peter to forgive him and go back to snuggling against him. “You know what? I think we can figure this out.” He paused. “The amnesia thing. I think we can make it work.”

“Of course we can,” Wade said, although, until that moment, he hadn’t quite been sure of it. “Didn’t I just mention what a legendary team we make? Amnesia should be trembling in its boots. It doesn’t stand a chance against us.”

“Wade?”

“Yeah, baby boy?”

“Let’s go home.”


	3. Adjustment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man... is it getting hot in here? Yeah, things are definitely starting to heat up.

They ate dinner at home – leftovers from the lunch Peter made earlier that day – and cuddled in the living room for what felt like hours but somehow still wasn’t long enough. They were reclining sideways along the couch, Peter practically laying on top of Wade, with his head on Wade’s chest. Wade ran his fingers through Peter’s hair, still feeling like the luckiest man alive, a feeling he hoped would never go away. He listened while Peter updated him on the status of other superheroes: the Avengers, the X-Men, other teams that had formed and broken up in the course of the past three years.

Wade could have fallen asleep like that, curled up on the couch with Peter in his arms, but at around eleven, Peter stood without warning, stretched his arms over his head, and yawned. “I should go to bed,” he said. “I have work in the morning.”

“You have work?” Wade hadn’t thought about Peter having a job, but it was obvious now that Peter had mentioned it. He hadn’t gotten all those fancy degrees for nothing. “Where do you work?”

“In a lab. I’m a biochemist.” Wade didn’t even know what that was.

“I guess I’ll get some sleep too, then,” Wade said with a shrug. He wasn’t particularly tired – he had slept in pretty late that day – but he didn’t like the idea of being left alone with his thoughts for the second time that day. It hadn’t gone so well the first time.

“Take a shower first,” Peter instructed him. “We smell like we went camping.” He wrinkled his nose in disgust. Wade sniffed the air between them. The smell of soot clung to their skin from the evacuation they’d helped with earlier, in the burning apartment building.

Wade rinsed off quickly, brushed his teeth, and changed into a fresh pair of boxer shorts. He didn’t feel comfortable sleeping naked with Peter around, but it was the middle of summer and the air conditioning in their apartment was subpar. He took a spare sheet out of the closet, grabbed a pillow off the bed, and made himself comfortable on the sofa. It was still warm, and it smelled like Peter. Yep, Wade could definitely get some quality sleep here.

The bathroom door opened, and Peter walked out into the living room, bare feet slapping against the wooden floor. “What are you doing?” he asked. Wade sat up, turned around, and gaped. A choking sound escaped the back of his throat.

Peter stood mere feet away from him, dripping wet and nearly naked, with only a towel wrapped around his waist. His hair was plastered to the sides of his head, and he ran a hand through it to make it stick up like it usually did. He was gorgeous. Built like an athlete: lean, but fucking _ripped_. He looked like a Greek statue. He looked like he could tear Wade’s head off his body. With his thighs. And Wade would let him.

“Wade?” Peter prompted, looking at him with a mixture of humor and bewilderment. “Hello? You in there, buddy?”

“Jesus Christ,” was all Wade could say. All he could whisper, actually. He couldn’t bring his voice to its full volume. He was too much in awe. “Do you seriously look like that?”

Peter blushed. He _blushed_. Wade could feel his dick hardening, and he willed it not to, but it was no use. He wasn’t convinced this Peter Parker hadn’t been plucked straight out of his daydreams. His filthiest, most unrealistic daydreams.

“Fighting crime is a, uh… pretty good workout,” Peter said with a shrug. He seemed to shrink in on himself, his blush deepening. Why was this kid self-conscious? He had nothing to be self-conscious about. He was _literally_ perfect. “Anyway, I was about to say… You don’t have to sleep on the couch. You can sleep with me.”

Fuck. Wade knew what Peter meant – that he could sleep _in the bed_ with Peter, not that he could _sleep_ _with_ _him_ , as in, well, you know – but he couldn’t help but jump straight to the naughtiest conclusion. He tried to think of something unsexy, but he was drawing a blank. He couldn’t think of anything. Anything besides Peter, standing in front of him, practically naked, asking Wade to sleep with him.

Wade knew what he was _supposed_ to do. He knew the mature decision would be to say, “Thanks, Peter, but I’d prefer to sleep here tonight.” Because no goddamn way could he handle sleeping inches away from that perfect body, reliving this very moment over and over again in his brain, imagining what Peter looked like _without_ the towel wrapped around his waist. But Wade had never been the guy to do what he was supposed to do. He had never been the guy to make the “mature” decision.

“Okay.”

So Peter got dressed, also in boxer shorts (dear God they were going to sleep next to each other _in their underwear_ , and Wade was two hundred and forty percent sure he did not have the level of self-control necessary to make it through the night), and they climbed into bed together. “Goodnight, Wade,” Peter said before reaching to turn off the lamp on their bedside table. All at once, they were plunged into darkness.

Wade didn’t even bother trying to sleep. He knew it wasn’t going to happen. Instead, he just lay there on his back, completely still, wondering how discreetly he could get out of bed and go jerk off in the bathroom. Was Peter a light sleeper? He decided not to risk it.

Eventually, after hours of agonizing over how _close_ Peter was, and how much Wade _wanted_ him, exhaustion took Wade. But a good night’s sleep was not in his cards; he woke not long after with an urgent pressure in his bladder. When he opened his eyes, instead of Peter’s sleeping face, all he saw was empty space. He frowned, rushed to the bathroom to relieve himself, and stepped out into the living room, where Peter had curled up on the couch with the same sheet and pillow Wade had left there. He looked up when he heard Wade enter the room.

Wade didn’t say anything. He still wasn’t sure exactly what was happening. Peter had an odd look on his face, an expression Wade couldn’t quite place. Discomfort, maybe? That made sense. Of course Wade would make him uncomfortable. But, no, that wasn’t quite right. It was something else. What was it?

“I couldn’t sleep,” Peter admitted. “Still can’t.” Realization hit Wade like a ton of bricks. Guilt. That was it. That was the expression on Peter’s face. Guilt. But what on earth did Peter have to feel guilty about?

When Wade still didn’t respond, Peter rubbed his eyes and sat up, gesturing for Wade to come sit next to him. Wade obeyed, and Peter leaned on his shoulder. “I can’t stop thinking about this morning,” he said quietly. “You really scared me, Wade. I thought you were going to…” Peter trailed off, but the implication was there. _I thought you were going to kill me._ Wade recoiled, shoving Peter off of him. He couldn’t make eye contact. He felt disgusted, not with Peter, but with himself. That was why Peter hadn’t been able to sleep in bed with him. He couldn’t sleep next to someone who’d almost shot him that very morning.

“I know,” Wade said. He stared intently at the floor beneath his feet, wishing it would swallow him whole. Silence fell on them like a weight on their shoulders. “I can leave,” Wade offered after several minutes had passed. “If you want me to.”

“No.” Peter said it so adamantly that Wade couldn’t help but meet his intense gaze. “Don’t go.” He paused. “I know you would never do anything to hurt me on purpose.”

“Never,” Wade breathed. He couldn’t imagine it. The mere thought revolted him more than his own reflection ever could.

“And I know what it’s like to hurt the people you love,” Peter continued, and this time he was the one who averted his eyes. “Even when you don’t mean to.”

Shortly after their brief heart-to-heart, Peter and Wade ended up falling asleep together on the couch, arms and legs entangled, sharing a single blanket and pillow. Wade had never slept so soundly in his life.

Peter’s alarm went off in the other room at some ungodly hour, waking both of them. Peter trudged into the bedroom to turn it off, and Wade nestled back into the couch to catch a few more hours of sleep. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered the sounds of Peter brushing his teeth, getting dressed, and eating a quick breakfast. He was awoken by a hand on his shoulder. When he forced his eyes open, he saw Peter leaning over him, holding a notebook.

“I have to leave soon,” Peter said, “But I wanted to talk to you about something before I do.”

Wade frowned and rubbed his eyes. “What’s up, baby boy?”

“Are you paying attention?” Peter asked. “Because this is important.” Wade sat up and put on his best “paying attention” face. “Last night, I decided we need to get started right away catching you up on all the things you’ve missed over the last three years. I want to get us both on the same page as soon as possible.”

“Good plan,” Wade agreed. “You always were the man with a plan. I like that about you.”

“I know,” Peter said. He sat down on the coffee table, knees pressed against Wade’s, faces barely a foot apart. “And speaking of things you like about me, the first area we’re going to cover is our relationship. Obviously a lot has changed since you last remember, so that’ll take some time. We’ll also cover pop culture, politics, and current events.”

“You’ve really thought this through.”

“Like you said, it’s what I’m good at. Besides, I want to be sure we don’t miss anything important.”

Wade nodded vigorously. “Oh, definitely. Wouldn’t want to be out of the loop. How am I supposed to interact with people if I can’t talk about the latest episode of _Game of Thrones_?”

“ _Game of Thrones_ is almost over,” Peter informed him with a smile. “You’ll have to find a new cultural touchstone.”

“Shit. This is just like when _Lost_ ended.”

Peter laughed, and Wade smiled along with him. All the tension from the previous night was gone, chased away by the morning light. Wade had pushed all his feelings of guilt and inadequacy aside, determined to start fresh. “I figure we can get started today, after I get home from work.”

Wade’s face fell. “You have to go to work?”

“Yes. I already told you that. Last night.”

To be fair, Wade had had a lot of other things on his mind the night before. He pouted, putting on a show of disappointment. “So, what, you’re just going to leave me here all alone?”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Uh, yeah,” he said. “I am. Just like I do every day, five days a week. That’s what it means to have a full-time job.”

Wade reached out and took Peter’s hands in his. He didn’t want to be left alone again. And for eight whole hours? No way. He couldn’t handle being alone that long in his current state. He’d barely made it through the few hours Peter had been out the day before. “Can you at least take me with you?” he begged.

“Absolutely not,” Peter said forcefully. “I work in a lab, remember? I trust you with my life, but not with dangerous chemicals.” That was probably smart of Peter. Wade didn’t trust himself with dangerous chemicals either. “I do have a list of shows you can start to catch up on while I’m out.” Peter handed Wade a sheet of paper. The names of shows and the streaming services they could be found on were scrawled on it in handwriting that was barely legible, with usernames and passwords for those streaming services at the bottom.

“Fine,” Wade said, still pouting, but somewhat mollified by the knowledge that he’d at least have something to distract himself with all day. But… if Peter was going to leave for eight hours, he wanted to clear something up first, because he knew he’d only be dwelling on it all goddamn day if he didn’t. Peter mentioning all the developments that had happened in their relationship had reminded Wade to ask. “Just one quick question.”

“Go ahead,” Peter said.

Wade struggled to find the right words. “This relationship we have,” he started, letting go of Peter’s hands and leaning back on the couch. “What exactly does it entail?”

Peter raised an eyebrow. All of a sudden he had a mischievous glint in his eyes. Wade didn’t know if that was a good sign, or a bad one. “I don’t know, Wade,” Peter said, visibly repressing a grin. “What do you think it entails?”

Wade thought back to the condoms and lube in their nightstand. He was pretty sure he knew, but this was one situation in which he didn’t want to be presumptuous. That was the sort of thing that would get him into trouble, and, unlike most trouble, this was not the sort of trouble he jumped into mindlessly. “I just want some kind of confirmation,” he said carefully. “Because I know I have a few things in mind when I picture you and me in a relationship – because I have pictured it, in great detail, and it is awesome – but I want to know if what’s been going on is anything like what I’ve been picturing.”

Peter leaned forward, placed his hands on Wade’s knees. Wade felt a flutter in his stomach, but managed not to let his excitement register on his face. “Well,” Peter began slowly, “We live together. Obviously.”

Wade looked pointedly around the room. “Obviously.”

“We share a room,” Peter continued, his hands sliding up Wade’s thighs, gradually, inch by inch. “And a bed.”

Wade gulped, but still stayed outwardly nonchalant. “Sweet.”

“We kiss.” Oh, fuck yeah. “And make out.” Double fuck yeah.

Peter lifted his hands before they got anywhere interesting, but Wade’s disappointment didn’t last long as Peter shifted so his arms were looped around Wade’s neck and he was _sitting in Wade’s lap, straddling him_. Wade’s heart raced. His arms wrapped around Peter’s waist of their own accord, and he stared up at his beautiful boyfriend with wide-eyed anticipation. “And, yeah, Wade,” Peter said, voice low and seductive, “We have sex.”

Wade would have celebrated this announcement, but he didn’t get the chance, because Peter continued, his fingers tracing distracting patterns on the back of Wade’s neck. “We have a lot of sex,” he was saying. “In a lot of different positions, on practically every surface of the apartment. Including the ceiling.” Wade looked up at the ceiling, his imagination running wild. He pictured himself stuck to it with Peter’s webs, unable to move, getting railed, or sucked off, or watching Peter ride his dick. His whole body shuddered. “And sometimes you fuck me, and sometimes I fuck you.” With every new scenario Peter brought up, Wade’s brain provided about a thousand different possibilities of what it might look like, what it might sound like, what it might _feel_ like. “And we suck each other’s dicks a lot. You’re really good at it.”

Peter leaned in so he was whispering directly in Wade’s ear. One of his hands trailed down Wade’s bare chest, teased the waistband of his boxers. “And you call me baby,” he said, “And I usually just call you Wade, but sometimes, if I’m in the right mood, when I’m feeling _really_ horny, I call you daddy. And you _fucking love it_.” That was it. Wade was going to die. Peter was going to kill him with how sexy he was, and he was going to die, and he was definitely going to hell when he did. Never in a million years had he thought Spider-Man, goody two-shoes Spider-Man, would one day sit in his lap and talk dirty in his ear. Sure, he’d fantasized about it, but never for a moment had he allowed himself to believe that these fantasies were anywhere close to one day becoming a reality.

“Fuck,” was all Wade could say. He wanted to kiss Peter. He wanted Peter to slip that teasing hand down his pants and start stroking his hardening cock. He wanted all the things he’d been wanting for _years_ , and finally it was starting to look like his wildest dreams might actually come true.

Peter leaned back, then stood up. Wade gasped at the sudden loss of sensation. The tent in his underwear was plainly visible, and he didn’t even bother trying to conceal it. “Yeah,” Peter said, grinning wickedly. “It’s pretty great. You’re definitely missing out on a lot of steamy memories with that amnesia you’ve got there.”

Wade just sat there, mouth agape, for several seconds before he found any words to reply with. “Is this payback?” he asked. “Are you getting revenge on me for pointing a gun at you and forgetting who you are?”

Peter’s grin widened. “Is it working?”

“Uh, yeah.” As if that wasn’t obvious.

Peter gestured to Wade’s erection. “I can tell.”

Wade shook his head, still reeling from what he’d just been put through. “I didn’t realize you were an evil mastermind.”

“One of the many things you’ve forgotten,” Peter said. “But now you know, and you know not to get on my bad side.”

“Note to self,” Wade said aloud. “Don’t get on Peter’s bad side. He will use his sexiness against you.”

“See? You’re already learning.” Peter turned and started walking toward the door. “This is gonna be easy.”

“Wait,” Wade jumped to his feet, his exhaustion from earlier replaced with an all-encompassing desire for sex, “We’re not gonna fuck after that? I thought that was foreplay!”

“No way,” Peter scoffed. “We can’t have sex yet. It feels like we just met. You can’t remember anything about me. You have to get to know me again.”

“That’s not fair,” Wade whined. “You get to have all the sexy memories and I don’t even remember what you look like naked! I bet you look great naked!”

“You certainly think I do,” Peter said, opening the front door to leave.

“Peter!”

“Goodbye, Wade. I’ll see you tonight.”

And that was how Peter left Wade: alone, and with a raging hard-on.


	4. Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer, I forget which bits of my Spider-Man knowledge come from the comics and which ones come from the movies and which are in both so let's all ignore any errors in his backstory, shall we? Comics are a hot mess anyway.

“Where are we?”

Wade had spent the majority of the day watching television, catching up on the shows on Peter’s list. This was, of course, after he’d jerked off on the couch, thinking about the way Peter had mercilessly teased him that morning. When Peter finally got home from work, he had them change into their Spider-Man and Deadpool suits and dragged Wade across the city to a seemingly random building on a seemingly random street corner, where they were currently sitting on the roof, watching the evening bustle below.

“My old neighborhood,” Peter said. A group of kids stopped across the street and started shouting excitedly and pointing at them. Peter waved, and the kids all waved back. “Back before we moved in together.” He pointed at another seemingly random building around the corner. “That was my building, right there.”

“It’s a piece of shit,” Wade said. Peter burst out laughing.

“I know,” he said when he caught his breath. “But that’s where I told you. I took you back to my apartment after one of our team-ups and I took off my mask and I told you everything. My name, my past.”

Wade gasped. “Your backstory!” Was he finally going to hear Spider-Man’s backstory? He felt like he’d waited all his life for this moment. A superhero’s backstory was the most important and most intimate secret they could share. It shaped and defined them, made them into the hero they were. You didn’t truly know a superhero until you knew their backstory.

“I figured I’d bring you back here to tell you the second time,” Peter said. “Maybe it’ll jog something. Worth a shot.”

“Sweet,” Wade said, feeling totally psyched. “Story time! Start from the beginning.”

Peter took a deep breath, adjusted to a more comfortable position, and began. “My parents died when I was young,” he said, voice low and tone gravely serious. “I can’t really remember them.”

“That’s a terrible beginning,” Wade said.

“It’s the truth.” Peter shrugged, like this was just something he was used to by now. Wade didn’t like that concept, the idea that Peter had grown accustomed to tragedy. It brought to life protective instincts he hadn’t known he possessed. “I grew up living with my aunt and uncle in Queens. But aside from that, I had a pretty normal childhood. I went to school, got good grades. By the time I was in middle school, everyone thought I was a nerd. Probably because I was.” He chuckled. “I was scrawny, I actually enjoyed math class, and I didn’t have a lot of friends. Oh, and I wore glasses.”

“That’s so cute.”

“Girls didn’t think so.”

“Middle school girls are dumb.”

“That’s true. Anyway, I got bullied.” Wade was overcome by a sudden compulsion to find anyone who had ever hurt Peter Parker and stick a knife in their gut. He decided that would probably be the sort of thing Peter wouldn’t approve of. He’d have to do it secretly. “Of course I did, right? And then one day, in high school, everything changed. I got bitten by a radioactive spider. Woke up the next morning a completely different person. Super strength, lightning fast reflexes, muscles, and perfect vision.”

“Did you beat up those piece of shit bullies?” Wade asked eagerly. “Give them a taste of their own medicine?”

“I didn’t do much of anything, really,” Peter said. “I didn’t know how to react. Didn’t even know how to process it. I was only fifteen. I hadn’t even accepted the fact that I was bisexual, and suddenly I was supposed to accept the fact that I had superpowers? I felt like a freak! And then… then my uncle died.”

The story only seemed to get worse from there. Peter and his aunt had financial troubles, and Peter had to start selling pictures of himself as Spider-Man to the _Daily Bugle_ , which only ever wrote about how dangerous and evil Spider-Man was. “I loved photography,” Peter said. “My camera was the most expensive thing I owned. But seeing my photos next to those stories kind of ruined it for me. I kept working for the _Bugle_ to put myself through college – I got a scholarship, too, which helped – but it was never a very fun place to work. It made me feel like I couldn’t do anything right. As Peter Parker, or as Spider-Man.”

Peter then told Wade about his education: He went to college at Empire State University – Wade knew enough to know that was really impressive – and got his master’s degree in biophysics and his doctorate in biochemistry, all the while fighting crime as Spider-Man and trying to maintain some semblance of a social life. He talked about his nemeses, about working with the Avengers for the first time, about the sacrifices he’d had to made along the way.

Wade frowned. He hadn’t thought about how frustrating it would be to hear all about Peter’s hardships and not be able to do anything about them, because they’d all already happened. When Peter got to the part where his girlfriend died, Wade had finally had enough.

“I don’t like this story,” he interrupted. “Does everyone you care about die?”

“It feels like it sometimes.” Peter leaned into Wade and brought his knees up to his chest.. “I think that’s why I feel so much safer being with you. You _can’t_ die.”

Wade smiled and rubbed Peter’s back comfortingly. “Nope,” he said. “I’ll always be around, bugging the shit out of you until you beg me to leave.”

“Good.”

They sat for a while in silence. “Hey, Spidey?”

“Mhm?”

Wade looked down at his feet. “I’m sorry.”

Peter pulled away from him and looked at him from behind his mask. “What are you sorry for?” he asked, sounding genuinely confused. Wade gestured around them at Peter’s old neighborhood.

“You brought me all the way here, told me your whole life story,” he said, “And I still don’t remember anything. It’s like I’m hearing it for the first time.”

“I didn’t really expect you to remember anything,” Peter said. “It couldn’t be that easy, right? That’s not why I brought you here. I just wanted you to get to know me better. Like I know you.”

“Did I tell you my backstory too?” Wade asked. “That day in your apartment?”

“Yeah.” Wade could hear the smile in Peter’s voice. It made him feel warm inside. “Took your mask off and everything.” Peter paused, reminiscing. “I really wanted to kiss you that day.”

Wade’s eyebrows shot up. “You saw my face for the first time and it made you want to kiss me?” That didn’t sound right. Usually when people saw Wade’s face for the first time, it made them want to throw up or run away.

“Yeah,” Peter said plainly.

“Oh.” Wade couldn’t think of anything to say to that. “Why didn’t you?”

“I chickened out.”

Wade nodded. “I know what that’s like.” The number of times he’d wanted to kiss Spider-Man, only to talk himself out of it because he couldn’t imagine Spider-Man ever feeling anything even close to attraction for Wade…

After a moment’s silence, Peter shot to his feet in a sudden burst of inspiration and held out his hand to Wade. “You know what might jog your memory?” he said excitedly. “There’s a Mexican place not too far from here. We used to go there all the time. I bet they’ll still remember us. I mean, of course they’ll remember us; we’re Deadpool and Spider-Man. It’d be weird if they didn’t.”

Wade let Peter help him to his feet. “The food any good?” he asked.

“The best,” Peter assured him. “Especially after a long day of fighting crime.”

“I hope I don’t remember it,” Wade said with a grin. “Then I’ll get to eat there for the first time all over again!”

Peter laughed. “That’s the spirit!”

The food was just as good as Peter had promised, and they returned home with full stomachs and slept in bed together comfortably. They repeated this routine every day for the rest of the week. Peter went to work, and when he came home, he caught Wade up on more of the things he’d forgotten, usually while they were out fighting crime. They would go to bed together, and wake up wrapped around each other. It was nice, but – and Wade felt spoiled and ungrateful thinking this, but he couldn’t help it – it never quite felt like enough. They were going through the motions of a relationship, but they hadn’t even kissed.

It was finally Friday, though, and Peter had hinted that he’d planned something special for the weekend. Wade waited anxiously for him to return from work, and when he finally walked through the door, Wade practically leapt into his arms, and it was only Peter’s super strength and Spidey sense that enabled him to catch Wade before he sent them both careening onto the floor.

“What’re we doin’ today, Peter?” Wade asked eagerly. “I got all caught up on politics today, which was super depressing, by the way. Why can’t you just let me live in ignorance? I’d be so much happier.”

Peter threw his wallet and keys on the kitchen table and started undressing his way to the bedroom. “Misery loves company,” he called out from the other room. He came back out wearing his Spider-Man suit, sans mask. “It’s probably a good thing you covered politics today, because I have just the thing to cheer you up.”

“Ooh, tell me!”

Peter grinned, that same wicked grin that had driven Wade wild when Peter had sat in his lap and cruelly denied him what he most wanted. “Today,” he said tantalizingly, “We’re recreating our first date.”

Wade’s eyes widened and he gasped. “Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“Ugh. Fine.” Peter was such a tease. Wade didn’t know how his pre-amnesia self put up with it. Probably all the sex. Oh, and the fact that Wade was so head-over-heels for Peter he’d pretty much put up with anything from him. There was that. “Will you at least tell me how it happened? Did I ask you out, or did you ask me? You asked me, right? I don’t think I’d have the guts.”

“I know for a fact you have the guts,” Peter said, poking Wade’s stomach. “I’ve seen them myself. Ripped out of your body. It was traumatic.”

“More or less traumatic than being in a relationship with me?” Wade teased. Peter pretended to consider this.

“I’ll have to get back to you on that one.”

“Rude!”

Peter cackled. “To answer your question,” he said, “You’re right. Technically, I asked you out. Although I didn’t do it very well, so I don’t think you realized it was a date until I started talking about my feelings.” Peter buried his face in his hands and shook his head. “God, I get embarrassed just thinking about it.”

“Just think,” Wade said, “Now you get a do-over. Memory loss is so convenient!”

“It does have its perks.” Peter gestured to Wade’s current outfit, which consisted of a t-shirt and no pants, because it was too hot for pants. “Put your suit on, okay? Then we’ll head out.”

Peter took him to the Brooklyn Bridge, and they sat atop it eating food they’d bought on the street, high above the cars and people below. Until that week, Wade had never really appreciated how much time Peter spent on top of tall structures. “I’m really glad I’m not afraid of heights,” he said. Peter’s mask was rolled up to his nose so he could eat, and Wade saw him smile around a mouth full of hot dog.

“Me too,” Peter said. “I don’t think this relationship would work if you were.”

Wade finished off his own hot dog and washed it down with a swig of soda. “Nice view up here,” he said, watching the sun set on the water.

“That’s why I like it.” Peter took Wade’s hand in his and leaned his head on Wade’s shoulder. It seemed to be his favorite position. “It puts things in perspective.”

“So what did we talk about?” Wade asked after a brief lull in the conversation. “On our first date?”

Peter turned to look at him. “To be honest? I don’t remember.”

So they talked about whatever came to their minds, and the sun crept lower and lower on the horizon until the oranges and yellows and pinks in the sky faded to the hazy black of night. The stars flickered to life, one by one, and a nearly full moon gazed down on them. In the distance, the lights of the city were as bright as ever, and the sounds of car horns and sirens were a distant white noise. Their idle chatter faded to silence.

“This was around when I said I needed to head home for the night,” Peter said quietly. “On our date.”

“Guy like you needs his beauty sleep,” Wade joked. He wondered if this meant the “date” was over, and they could go home and fall asleep together for the sixth night in a row. He wondered when he’d stop keeping track of the number of nights he’d spent in Peter’s bed, if the novelty would ever wear off. He hoped it never would.

“And then I said something like…” Peter shifted off of Wade and turned to face him. “Deadpool?”

Wade had caught on pretty early that Peter was very strict about keeping his two identities separate. When they were in costume, they were Spider-Man and Deadpool. When they weren’t, they were Peter and Wade. “Yeah, Spidey?” Wade said, realizing what Peter was doing, that they were roleplaying that very first date. He was always down for a little roleplay.

“Before I go…” Peter looked down at his feet, then back up at Wade, “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

“You can tell me anything,” Wade breathed, imagining what it must have felt like the first time they’d done this, when he didn’t have a clue how Peter felt about him, when he thought they’d just be friends forever, or friends until Peter tired of him and Wade was forced to move on. He put on a smile. “High time someone besides me does some of the talking around here.”

The words spilled out of Peter like he was afraid if he hesitated, he’d never get them out. “Deadpool, I have feelings for you.”

And Wade had known Peter had feelings for him, of course he did – they were in a relationship, for crying out loud – but his heart skipped a beat nonetheless. “Feelings of disgust?” he asked. “Repulsion? Shame? What kinda feelings we talkin’ here?”

Peter slugged him, but the punch didn’t have any force behind it. “I have a crush on you, loser,” he said. “I want to hold your hand and kiss you on the mouth. Those kinda feelings.”

“I’d be down for that,” Wade said, trying not to sound too eager and failing so, so miserably.

“You would?” Peter feigned surprise.

“Totally.”

Peter leaned back on his hands, ending the scene. He stared at Wade for a split second, then spoke. “And then we kissed.”

Wade’s heart was pounding in his chest. “What was it like?”

“Like this.”

Peter leaned forward, hands cupping Wade’s jaw, and brought their mouths together in a tender kiss. Wade’s eyes fluttered shut and he melted. At first, he couldn’t do anything but sit there, savoring the feeling of Peter’s mouth soft and pliant against his, of Peter’s gloved hands on his face. Then, excitement kicked in and he reached out, one hand behind Peter’s head and one on his waist, drawing him closer. A small sound escaped Peter, a quiet hum, and his lips parted, his tongue venturing into Wade’s mouth, hot and slick. Wade savored the feeling, his tongue sliding against Peter’s, and wondered how he’d lived without this as long as he had.

Wade pulled, and Peter fell forward into his lap, their noses bumping together. Peter’s thumb stroked the scarred skin of Wade’s face, and his free hand drifted down to Wade’s chest. “Wade,” he breathed when they parted for air, and a shock went through Wade’s system when he realized Peter had broken one of his own rules, using Wade’s real name when he was dressed as Deadpool. He clung to Peter, determined not to ever let him go.


	5. Connection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want you all to know that I wrote this entire chapter at work.

The morning after their first kiss, Wade couldn’t help but notice something was… different between him and Peter. Good different. It was a Saturday, and when they woke up in the lazy late morning hours, Peter’s legs were tangled around Wade’s, and he climbed on top of Wade to kiss him long and slow, hands on Wade’s bare chest, and they both had terrible morning breath but neither of them cared. Their skin was warm from sleep, and Wade savored the slide of their tongues against each other and ran his fingers through Peter’s hair.

Wade made breakfast – living alone as long as he had had made him into more than a half-decent cook, if he did say so himself – and Peter sat at the kitchen table with his laptop. When Wade brought over their food – plates of bacon and eggs and toast and cups of coffee – Peter stood and kissed him across the table, the minty taste of toothpaste in his mouth. It felt like the most natural thing in the world, kissing Peter. Peter sat down and turned his attention back to his laptop.

After breakfast, Peter dragged Wade around all afternoon running errands. Wade wore a sweatshirt with the hood up despite the sweltering summer heat; he preferred not to draw attention to himself. They stocked up on groceries, and Peter let Wade pick out what they were going to eat that week, and they kissed on the street, arms laden with shopping bags. Wade felt like melting, and it had nothing to do with the sun beating down on his back. Peter was kissing him _in public_. And then they walked arm-in-arm back to their apartment, and Wade reveled in the realization that Peter wasn’t ashamed to be seen with him. Quite the opposite, in fact; he even seemed _proud_ to be seen with Wade, although Wade couldn’t yet allow himself to fully believe that. It was too much.

They spent the evening curled up on the couch, alternating between playing video games – their teamwork in the real world may have been on point, but in the virtual world, they lost every multiplayer game they attempted – and making out. Peter ran his hands all over Wade’s torso on top of his t-shirt, and Wade wanted so badly to be naked, but Peter never made a move to undress him, and Wade didn’t want to push things. He already felt like he was getting more than he deserved out of this relationship, and was afraid if he rocked the boat, everything he’d suddenly woken up to that day he came home with amnesia would all come crashing down around him.

They both got a little stir-crazy the next day, so they got dressed up as Spider-Man and Deadpool and spent long hours out in the city, stopping crime when they saw it happening but mostly joking around and enjoying each other’s company. It seemed like the sort of thing they did all the time. Wade wished he could remember all the times they had.

When evening fell, Peter pulled Wade into an alley, shoved him against a brick wall, pulled their masks up over their mouths, and kissed him until they were blushing and hard. They went home and went to bed, didn’t talk about it; Wade jerked off in the shower, one hand bracing himself against the wall and one on his cock. He imagined Peter fucking him in that alley; he imagined Peter sitting on the edge of the kitchen counter while Wade sucked his cock; he imagined the two of them stroking each other to completion on the couch. Peter got in the shower after him, and Wade sat in the bedroom wondering if he, too, was getting out his sexual frustration, if that was what was taking him so long.

And then Peter had to go back to work on Monday, and Wade had mostly caught up on all the important things he’d missed, the major events that had happened, so he went out in his Deadpool suit and familiarized himself with the local food scene, discovering – or perhaps rediscovering – a Lebanese restaurant down the street and ignoring the stares and pointing and whispers from passers-by (“Is that Deadpool?” “What’s _he_ doing here?”).

Peter brought dinner home with him, Chinese takeout. Halfway through their meal, Peter _crawled across the table_ to kiss Wade, kneeling over their half-eaten food, the tastes of rice and chicken and vegetables mingling between them, and when Peter returned to his seat, Wade’s mouth was hanging open in shock. “Are you always like this?” he asked.

“Like what?” Peter asked, as though nothing had happened.

Wade gestured vaguely between them. “Just… constantly affectionate?”

“I guess so,” Peter said with a shrug, cheeks flushing pink.

“I love it,” Wade said. This earned him five more kisses that night: A quick peck on the lips when they finished eating; an extensive make out session while they washed the dishes, hands wet and soapy and sink still running; two open-mouthed kisses, one before Peter took a shower and one after, skin warm from the steam and hot water; and one last goodnight kiss before they went to sleep.

This trend continued throughout the week, the constant touching and kissing, all hands and tongues and skin. And it was once again a Friday, exactly a week after their first kiss, when Wade found himself sitting on the couch, Peter sitting in his lap, giving him a serious case of déjà vu. Peter had walked straight in the door after work, said nothing, just turned off the television Wade was watching and started kissing him with a passion, a desperation Wade hadn’t yet seen from him. He practically shoved his tongue down Wade’s throat; his hands slid under Wade’s t-shirt to feel his toned stomach, and when he broke away, he pulled his own shirt over his head and started grinding down on Wade’s hardening cock.

“Missed you today,” Peter muttered against Wade’s mouth.

“I can tell.”

One of Peter’s hands slid down, cupped Wade’s groin and applied just enough pressure to make Wade buck his hips up involuntarily, seeking friction. Wade gasped and Peter brought their mouths together sloppily; one hand rubbed Wade’s erection through too many layers of clothing, and the other traced the scars on his arms, neck, face, anywhere Wade’s skin was exposed.

“Bedroom,” Peter breathed, and he stood, dragging Wade with him toward their bed.

“Are we…?” Wade began, not quite wanting to finish the question, worried he was getting his hopes up for nothing, despite Peter’s obvious signals.

“We’re gonna have sex,” Peter said, stepping out of his pants. Wade followed suit. “If that’s alright with you.”

“Nothing has ever been more alright with me,” Wade assured him. Peter grinned and pushed him onto the bed, using just the smallest fraction of his strength and sending Wade’s heart racing in his chest.

Peter climbed on top of Wade, took Wade’s hips in his hands and started grinding once again, trailing open-mouthed kisses down Wade’s neck, breath catching every time the hard lengths of their cocks brushed together through their underwear. Arousal burned inside Wade; he touched every inch of Peter he could reach: his toned arms, his muscular thighs, his flexing back and tight butt. He felt Peter’s teeth sink in where his neck met his shoulders and his eyes flew open; Peter’s tongue found his most sensitive scars with incredible precision, and the heat of Peter’s mouth and scrape of his teeth against sensitive scar tissue made Wade _whine_.

Wade slid Peter’s underwear down his legs, and Peter returned the favor. “Fucking love your cock,” Peter told him; he took both of their dicks in his hand, using the pre-come that was dripping out of them as lubricant as he stroked them steadily, up and down, up and down. Wade’s hips stuttered up with every tug; Peter squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip and he looked so perfect Wade could die.

When Peter removed his hand, Wade almost complained, but Peter was already clambering over him to reach into the nightstand, coming back with his fingers slicked with lube. He leaned forward, knee pressing into Wade’s side, and started fingering himself open. Wade choked; his cock jumped at the sight. A drop of pre-come slid off Peter’s dick onto Wade’s stomach.

“Can I do that?” Wade almost begged. As much as he enjoyed watching Peter work himself open, he knew he’d enjoy it even more if he was the one doing it, if his fingers were the ones that were making Peter gasp.

Peter shook his head. “You’re too slow,” he said, eyes fluttering open. He had such pretty eyes. “Next time, okay?”

“Didn’t realize we were in a hurry,” Wade said with a smirk. “You got somewhere to be after this?”

Peter stared down at him, dead serious, although his fingers didn’t stop their movement. “Wade,” he said. “Babe. I’m horny.” Wade’s dick jumped again. He didn’t know if he could handle this. It was too much. It was already too much, and they hadn’t even started fucking. Just Peter calling him that, calling him “babe” – he hadn’t called Wade that before, had he? it felt new – made Wade feel like his life was ending. This was the best thing that had ever happened to him. His life had reached its peak. It was all downhill from here.

Peter continued, oblivious to Wade’s internal crisis. “You were gone for weeks,” he explained, “And then when you came back, we had to deal with this amnesia thing. I’m pretty sure this is the longest we’ve gone without sex since we got together and it’s really starting to get to me and I am so. Fucking. Horny.” He punctuated each word by fucking down onto the three fingers in his ass.

How could Wade possibly argue with that? So he let Peter finish prepping himself, and in the meantime, he riffled around in the nightstand drawer for the condoms he remembered were in there. Peter shook his head. “Those are just leftovers,” he said. “We don’t need them anymore. Got checked out earlier this year. Not that we needed to – you’ve got that healing factor – but you can never be too careful.”

“Are you sure?” Wade asked, even though the idea of fucking Peter without a condom was already the best idea he’d ever heard. “I really don’t mind.”

“Wade.” Peter pulled out his fingers, slicked them up once again, and coated Wade’s dick in lube. “Trust me.”

“Whatever you say, baby boy.”

Peter crouched over Wade, aligning himself with Wade’s cock. “You ready?” he asked.

Wade nodded vigorously. “Yes!”

With Wade’s permission granted, Peter guided himself down onto Wade, spearing himself on Wade’s full, throbbing cock, sinking down slowly until he was fully seated, back arched, eyes closed, a bead of sweat forming on his forehead and slipping down his face. “Oh my God.” Peter’s voice was barely a whisper. “Wade, you’re so fucking big.”

Now that was a sound clip Wade would be playing in his fantasies for years to come. He waited while Peter adjusted to the sensation, and then Peter started moving, rocking on Wade’s dick, hands splayed on Wade’s chest, pressing down so hard they left bruises that faded as quickly as they formed. Wade’s hands found Peter’s hips, desperate to touch him, to feel him. Peter’s skin burned with heat, his hair was in his eyes, and he looked so fucking wanton and needy, cock bobbing between his thighs.

But the noises he made. The _noises_. Turned out, Peter didn’t just look like a porn star, he _sounded_ like one. Little _uh-unh, uh-unh_ ’s at first, harmonizing with the slap of skin against skin, but escalating gradually into throaty moans interspersed with nonsensical rambling: “Wade… fuck… oh my God, Wade, you feel so fucking good…”

Before long, Wade began to feel the telltale pool of arousal forming beneath his stomach, and he fought to suppress it but knew he couldn’t last much longer. Something in the way his grip on Peter tightened must’ve tipped Peter off, because he then demanded, “Touch me, daddy,” and Wade didn’t know how he managed not to come right then and there, but somehow he did, and he was so goddamn impressed with himself.

He kept one hand on Peter’s hips; the other found Peter’s cock and started stroking him in time with Peter’s up-and-down and back-and-forth movements. “Ahh… ahh… ahh…” Peter’s pitch got higher and his pace got faster and Wade’s cock must’ve hit him at just the right angle because he shouted and came in Wade’s fist, splattering white streaks across Wade’s chest and stomach. He continued bouncing on Wade’s dick, wincing each time as Wade’s cock rubbed against his oversensitive prostate, but determined to keep going until Wade orgasmed.

Peter didn’t have to wait long before Wade came inside him, the tight heat surrounding his cock bringing him over the edge. Peter collapsed on top of him, pressed their mouths together in an action that couldn’t quite be called a kiss; they simply lay there, breathing into each other, holding each other.

“Wade,” Peter said quietly. Wade wasn’t paying attention. He was too busy recalling the desperate, almost pained sounds Peter had made after he’d come, when he was waiting for Wade to follow. An idea struck him; he pulled his cock out of Peter and switched their positions, pushing Peter face-down onto the bed. “Wade, what—?” Peter began, but he was cut off by Wade spreading his ass cheeks and licking a hot stripe over his hole. He cried out. It sounded like sin. Wade licked him again, and Peter grabbed a pillow with both hands and buried his face in it.

Wade carried on like this for several minutes, pressing his tongue flat over Peter’s fluttering hole, licking the drops of come that had leaked out of him. When Peter seemed ready for it – when he no longer looked ready to tear the pillow he was holding in half – Wade amped it up. His tongue delved into Peter, first teasingly, then in earnest, tasting Peter and his own come. He thrust his tongue in as deep as it would go, and Peter _screamed_ , then made a sound like he was crying, sobbing. Wade hesitated, wondering if he should stop.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop!” Peter shouted almost immediately, and Wade grinned and got back to work. He ate Peter’s ass until his jaw was sore while Peter writhed and begged beneath him, and then replaced his tongue with his fingers and scissored them inside of Peter until he was hard again. His fingers in Peter’s hole and his hand on Peter’s cock brought Peter to his second orgasm, shaking and crying and incoherent. Wade, who’d gotten spectacularly hard during this whole process – his refractory period was mere minutes, thanks to his healing factor – jacked off until he came all over Peter’s back, then licked Peter clean.

And then they lay next to each other, breathing hard, until Peter was once again capable of forming words. “That was…” He paused, unable to describe it. “Oh my God. How… how did you know to… do that?”

Wade grinned, feeling pretty goddamn proud of himself. “Just my natural manly instincts.” Peter smacked him.

“Shut up.”

“You want _me_ to shut up?” Wade feigned innocence. “If I remember correctly, I wasn’t the one making noise just now. You’re _loud_ , baby boy.”

Peter turned to cuddle against Wade, one arm across his chest and one leg wrapped around him. They were sticky and sweaty and should probably take a shower, but there would be time for that later. For now, it was clear they both just wanted to bask in each other’s presence. “That’s your favorite part,” he said, giving Wade a kiss on the cheek.

“You’re my favorite part,” Wade said with a big, cheesy grin.

“You’re such a sap.”

“Only for you, baby boy.”


	6. Recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've made it! We're at the end! This is the final chapter, and I'm so glad all of you could come on this sappy, cliché journey with me. A huge thank you to everyone who left comments along the way. Stick around if you're interested in more Spideypool, because I have a few more story ideas after this one that I hope to start writing as soon as possible. Enjoy the finale!

Wade woke up in the best possible way: In bed, naked, wrapped up in his equally naked boyfriend’s embrace. Peter was already awake, holding his phone in front of his face and scrolling through Twitter. He set it down to smile at Wade and place a soft, sweet kiss on his mouth. “Good morning,” he said quietly.

They lay there for another hour, Peter on his phone, Wade lingering somewhere halfway between asleep and awake, basking in the patch of sun that streamed through the window onto their bed. When Peter eventually got up, it was to walk into the bathroom and turn on the sink, emerging seconds later with a toothbrush in his mouth. “Brush your teeth,” he said through a mouth full of toothpaste. Wade complied, and when he’d banished his dingy morning breath, Peter took him by the hand and led him back to bed, where they made out lazily until Wade’s stomach groaned so loudly Peter had to break away to laugh.

“Must be time for breakfast,” he said. “You in the mood for anything in particular?”

Wade wasn’t one to discriminate between breakfast foods – he loved them all equally – so he let Peter choose, and they ate scrambled eggs and bacon in their underwear. “What’re we doing today?” Wade asked while they rinsed their dishes off in the sink. Peter knocked their shoulders together, and the brief satisfaction of skin-on-skin contact sparked something warm in Wade’s chest.

It was a Saturday, the morning after they’d finally had sex, and Wade felt like he could take on the world. Whatever Peter had planned, he was up for it. Peter dried his hands off on a dishtowel and then started meandering slowly toward the bedroom, Wade mirroring his every step like he was caught in a spell. “I was thinking,” Peter said seductively, “We could just stay in bed all day. Run errands tomorrow.”

Wade was _definitely_ up for that. “Brilliant idea,” he said teasingly. “I told you you’re the best at coming up with plans.”

Peter closed the space between them until the heat of his body was pressing up against Wade’s. One of his hands went to the back of Wade’s neck, drawing him in for a kiss.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand. Wade scowled. Talk about terrible timing. Peter rolled his eyes and trudged across the room, but his expression changed when he saw who was calling.

“Who is it?” Wade asked, eyes wide with anticipation. Peter turned to look at him, equally anxious.

“It’s the Xavier School,” he said quickly. “Maybe they changed their mind about helping us.” He answered the phone and put it on speaker. “Hello?”

A gruff voice answered. Wade recognized it instantly. “Is this Spider-Man?”

Peter hadn’t given up on trying to find someone who could help them restore Wade’s memories. He left about fifty messages on the Avengers’ answering machine – the last of which had simply been, “You guys are assholes” – and even tried to contact Logan, the person Wade had supposedly been teaming up with when he’d lost his memories. Unfortunately, Logan was a difficult man to track down, so contacting him consisted mostly of calling the Xavier School every twenty-four hours to ask if anyone had seen him. They hadn’t.

Until now.

“Wolverine!” Peter exclaimed, sitting down on the bed and motioning for Wade to join him. “Yeah, this is Spider-Man.”

“Deadpool with you?” Logan asked. Peter had filled Wade in on Logan when he’d been updating him on the status of other superheroes: Logan knew about their relationship, partially because, according to him, the scent of Peter lingered on Wade wherever he went, but mostly because Wade wouldn’t shut up about Peter, so pretty much anyone he interacted with knew about them.

“Yeah, we’re both here,” Peter confirmed.

“Heard you were callin’ for me. What’d you need?”

Peter and Wade exchanged a look. “It’s kind of a long story—” Peter began.

“Give it to me in five words or less,” Logan demanded, audibly losing patience.

“Deadpool has amnesia.”

There was a long pause, and then a sigh. “How’d that happen?”

“We don’t know,” Peter explained. “Well, I don’t know, and he can’t remember. We were actually hoping you might know, because you were the last person we know who was with him before it happened. He came back from your team-up and couldn’t remember the past three years.”

“Huh.”

Now Peter was losing patience. “‘Huh’?” he repeated, wholly dissatisfied with this answer. “So you don’t have any idea how this could’ve happened? Not even an inkling?”

The hope in Wade’s chest that had risen so quickly upon hearing Logan’s voice began to fall. Were they going to end up back on square one? Was there no one out there, in the whole, wide world of superheroes, who could and would do anything to help them? Sure, he could understand why no one wanted to help _him_ , he was an asshole, but Peter – Spider-Man – was a genuinely well-liked and friendly guy! There had to be someone willing to lend him a hand.

“Nothin’,” Logan said, and he at least had the decency to sound apologetic. “He seemed to be remembering everything just fine when I dropped him off.”

Peter frowned. “Strange.”

“Yeah,” Logan agreed. “But hey, why don’t you bring him down to the school? We can have the Professor take a look at him, see if there’s anything a little telepathy can do.”

“That’s what I thought we should do,” Peter insisted, “But when I called the school, they told me to fuck off!”

“Who did?”

“I think it was Cyclops.”

Another sigh from Logan. “That’s just Scott,” he said. “He’s an asshole. Pro tip, next time you need something, ask for Ororo or Kitty. They’ll be a lot more helpful.”

“Got it.” Peter paused. “Uh, when should we come by?”

“Soon as you can. I won’t be here long. Got places to be.”

“We’ll be right over.”

They got dressed in their Spider-Man and Deadpool suits with Quicksilver-like efficiency and made it to Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters in record time. When they rang the doorbell beside the mansion’s massive double doors, Logan answered and led them inside.

“You got here quick,” he said.

“Of course we did!” Wade exclaimed. “I want my goddamn memories back! You have no idea what sort of things I’m missing out on.” He was practically vibrating with excitement; the previous night had left him even more desperate to get his memories back than he’d been before. If sex with Peter was that good his “first” time, what must it have been all the other dozens, if not hundreds, of times they’d done it? Peter was right; he was missing out on some steamy memories, and he wanted them back.

Sex wasn’t the only reason he wanted his memories back, though. He thought of that sticky note he’d found on his first day with amnesia, its words seared into his brain: _Love, Peter_. They were in love, and Wade wanted very much to know how that felt, what it was like to be in love with Peter Parker, and for Peter Parker to be in love with him.

And lastly, he knew getting his memories back would make Peter happy. Peter had been a fucking champ about this whole amnesia thing, taking it in stride, bringing Wade back up to speed, restarting their relationship from the very beginning, but Wade knew that beneath Peter’s easygoing exterior, he was a mess of anxiety and really just wanted his old boyfriend back. And Wade wanted very much to give that to him.

“And I don’t wanna know,” Logan was saying. He motioned them down a hallway. “Come on. The Professor’s in his office.” At the end of the hallway, there was another set of double doors, and inside, a room that looked like a cross between a principal’s office and a library. A large desk sat in the back, in front of windows that looked out onto the pristine grounds where young mutants ran around kicking a soccer ball, levitating a Frisbee, or just lying in the grass with books in their hands.

Professor Charles Xavier sat behind the desk in his customized wheelchair, a silver X-shaped design over each wheel. He had the same knowing expression Wade would expect from a telepath, and he welcomed them into the room, gesturing to a pair of chairs across from the desk that Peter and Wade claimed, Logan standing behind them.

“Spider-Man. Deadpool.” His voice was as deep as Logan’s, but completely different in every other way, smooth where Logan’s was harsh, posh where Logan’s was distinctly working class. “Logan’s told me about your predicament.”

Peter leaned forward in his chair eagerly. “Do you think you can help?”

“It depends,” Xavier admitted diplomatically. Wade felt his nerves tangle themselves into a ball in his stomach and sit there, making him feel queasy.

“On what?” he asked.

“On a number of factors,” Xavier explained. “What caused you to lose your memories, how many of them you lost, the psychological mechanisms that are preventing you from accessing them. But there’s only one way to find out.” He gestured to his famously bald head. “Do you mind?”

Under normal circumstances, Wade would never welcome a telepath into his brain to peruse his thoughts and potentially mess around in there, fucking him up even worse than he already was. But these were not normal circumstances, and there wasn’t much else he could do to fix this mess he’d found himself in. “Go on in,” he said. “Just, uh, it’s pretty R-rated in there, so… be careful where you step.”

Xavier looked at him – through him – intensely. “Let’s see…” Wade couldn’t sense anything going on in his head, but he knew the Professor was in there. It was perhaps even more unnerving than being able to physically feel someone shuffling his thoughts around like the pages of a book. It meant any old telepath could simply waltz in and out of his brain whenever they pleased, and he’d never be the wiser.

“Ah.” Xavier’s voice jolted Wade out of his internal crisis. “I think I’ve found your problem.”

All at once, Wade was flung back into his thoughts, stumbling into a memory he hadn’t had access to before.

_He was standing in a warehouse, back-to-back with Wolverine, taking fire from guns shot by an unseen enemy hiding behind stacks of crates and cardboard boxes. “There are two over there,” Logan ordered, pointing to the far corner of the spacious room. “Take ’em out.”_

_Wade nodded, heading off in that direction. “On it!” he shouted, bobbing and weaving but still getting hit more times than not. “Hey assholes!” He barreled through a stack of boxes; a bullet hit one and ruptured it, and it spilled packing peanuts across the floor. He sliced through the gunmen with his swords, and they fell bleeding to the ground, their weapons useless._

_Objective accomplished, Wade turned and ran back toward Logan. He stopped abruptly when something arced through the air and landed at his feet, crouched to take a better look. It looked like a grenade, but that wasn’t what caught his eye; he was more interested in the familiar logo emblazoned on it, a bird of prey spreading its wings. This was S.H.I.E.L.D. technology._

_“Huh,” Wade said to himself, hands on his hips. “Where’d these guys get—?”_

_He was cut off when the grenade went off, only, instead of exploding, as one might expect of a grenade, it burst into a puff of blue-tinted smoke. “Ah!” Wade waved his arms and ran out of the cloud of smoke, trying not to breathe too much of it in. “Smoke bomb!”_

_“Everything alright over there?” Logan was currently slashing his way through three more hostiles. He spared a glance over his shoulder to check that his partner was still in one piece._

_“Did you know these guys had S.H.I.E.L.D. weapons?” Wade asked, taking aim at one of Logan’s targets and firing off a clean headshot._

_“I’m not surprised,” Logan said. “You get hit?”_

_“Yeah, with some sort of smoke bomb.”_

_“You’ll be fine, though, right?”_

_“Yeah, of course.” He was always fine. He was Deadpool. What could happen?_

This memory faded into another.

_“You don’t look right.” They were standing in front of Wade and Peter’s apartment building, next to Logan’s motorcycle. Logan was looking at him with concern written on his features._

_“I feel weird,” Wade admitted. He was having difficulty standing up straight, seeing straight, thinking straight. He wasn’t in any pain, but he didn’t feel good, either._

_“What kind of ‘weird’ we talkin’ here?”_

_“Hard to describe.” Wade paused, searching for words. “Kind of… fuzzy? In my brain. I feel drunk.”_

_Logan frowned. “Get some sleep,” he said, clapping a hand on Wade’s shoulder in a friendly gesture that only felt a little forced. Logan wasn’t a touchy-feely guy. “If you still feel weird in the morning, give me a call.”_

_That made sense, even to Wade’s spinning, twisting, warping mind. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “Will do. See ya later.”_

_“See ya ’round.”_

Wade snapped back to the present. He looked around the room, taking stock of his surroundings. Realization hit him like a freight train. “It was that smoke bomb!” he exclaimed, turning to face Logan. “That S.H.I.E.L.D. weapon they had! Remember?” He turned to Peter to explain. “Logan and I teamed up against this anti-mutant militant group. They had stolen S.H.I.E.L.D. weapons, including this smoke bomb-type thing that went off right next to me. I started to feel kinda woozy after that, and then when I woke up the next day, I forgot everything.”

“Did it look like a grenade?” Peter asked. “I know S.H.I.E.L.D. used to make amnesia grenades. Iron Man told me about them. The closer you are to them when they go off, the more memory you lose. But they don’t take effect instantly, so they’re pretty useless in combat. Tony called them a failed weapons experiment. S.H.I.E.L.D. got rid of them all.”

“That must’ve been how those thugs got a hold of them,” Logan reasoned.

Wade turned to Xavier, mind racing. “Hey, you got that memory back pretty easily. Can you get the rest of them?”

Xavier smiled. “I’ll see what I can do.”

A minute passed. Then two. And then, in a sudden flood of information, memories came rushing back to Wade, in no particular order, overlapping each other, a sound bite there, an image there, all coming together to form a three-year relationship Wade hadn’t remembered being a part of.

He remembered Peter taking off his mask, seeing his goddamn gorgeous face for the first time and the shock like a punch in the gut, removing his own and feeling a deep sense of shame at how their appearances compared, at exposing his mutilated features in front of such a beautiful creature.

He remembered those soft lips on his, sitting on top of the Brooklyn Bridge, the night sky above them, cars honking below, and the skyline a romantic backdrop befitting a cheesy movie. Kissing Peter for the first time felt like coming home.

He remembered the first time they had sex, fumbling slightly but both coming away satisfied, and all the times after that, only getting more heated, more passionate, and way more kinky. He felt a brief flash of self-awareness and embarrassment knowing that the sage Professor Charles Xavier, savior of mutantkind, was bearing witness to his filthiest and most personal memories. _Not to worry,_ a voice answered in his head. _I’ve seen far worse._

He remembered sitting on the sofa watching something on television – it didn’t matter what – and Peter was leaning on his shoulder and holding his hand and Wade felt a tightness in his chest and before he could think too much about it, he said, “I love you,” and Peter looked up at him and said, “I love you too,” without a moment’s hesitation. The tightness in his chest came unwound and everything in his life seemed to slide neatly into place.

And he remembered everything in between, all the breakfasts and the lunches and the dinners, the nights and the mornings and the evenings, the video games and the TV shows, going away on jobs and coming back, teaming up against bad guys, the fighting and the kissing and making up, _everything_. It felt like nothing he’d ever felt before, like every emotion he’d ever experienced over the past three years all at once.

“Holy shit!” he shouted. Then, conscious of the fact that he was in a school, “Sorry, Professor. Spidey!” He turned to Peter.

“You remember?” Peter sounded just as excited and relieved as Wade felt.

“I remember! I remember it all!”

“Everything?”

“Everything!”

Peter stood, bringing Wade with him to his feet. “That’s amazing! Professor Xavier, thank you, thank you so much.”

Xavier was still smiling. “You’re welcome, both of you,” he said, wheeling around his desk. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a class to teach in just a few minutes. Logan, will you see them to the door?”

“Sure thing, Professor.” Logan led them back down the hallway and through the front door, out onto the grounds. The students had dispersed, their break apparently over. “So everything’s back to normal?” he asked them.

“As normal as it can be,” Peter said. “This is Deadpool we’re talking about.”

“I think I should be insulted by that,” Wade said, but he wasn’t.

“Glad it all worked out,” Logan said. “You two need anything else while you’re here?”

Peter turned to Wade, and Wade couldn’t see him beneath his mask, but he knew he was smiling. “Nope. We’re all good.”

Yeah. They were.


End file.
